by Todd Dillard
This poem was supposed to be about
Donald Trump playing Dungeons and Dragons,
the gregariously-sided dice
scattered across his T-shaped dining room table,
his orange barbarian
righteous and at least level five.
But then I couldn’t figure out
the poem-poem part.
You know, that line where people at poetry readings
grunt or go ‘ah,’
as if poetry readings
are some sort of public constitutional?
And then I started thinking about this dream
where I lived in Santa’s gift-sack.
There was a whole neighborhood of us. We all had pet iguanas
and drank cheap beer or box wine,
and when that great white-gloved hand took one of us away
we all pretended not to be jealous,
not to admit we too wanted to be wanted.
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Let's be honest if Mario Mario
actually had a couple lives to spare
he wouldn't be racing door-to-door
in some monster-filled sewer suburb
looking for his girlfriend,
slamming his head against bricks for money--
and don't get me started on the turtle-shell-
He would probably steal one of those cloud cars though.
Maybe do some gardening,
tame some toothy weeds,
grow some fire flowers,
have a bbq where he cooks burgers in his fists.
Or, more likely, he would get drunk alone on New Year’s Eve
and practice hurting himself,
go from really big Mario Mario
to small Mario Mario and back again,
and as that countdown
rolled across his vision
he would wonder what if anything this life means
compared to the inevitable next one.